


Type

by letosatie



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik has a type and this is it personified.  He has never strayed from pale skin, lush brown hair and backlit blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Type

Erik has been hesitating outside the bar entrance for several more minutes than is wise for the season. Celebratory work drinks await, but Erik is thinking about Jerusalem artichoke soup from Vinnie’s and homemade grilled cheese and coconut cake leftover from yesterday. He is wistful for his kitchen, highlighted and toasty from the stove, cutlery clinking onto the table top and cupboards softly clicking home.

A hand taps his back and, even as he is suddenly aware of snowdrift and cheek slapping cold, he steps aside, looking down in to passing blue eyes. They are piercing with curiosity and, then, appreciation. Erik catches the door before it swings shut and follows the blue eyes inside.

Angel dispenses with Erik’s coat and scarf, Emma provides a glass of champagne and his boss, Seb, throws an arm around his shoulder, dribbling praise. Erik sips his drink, smiles and chuckles in response when necessary and searches for blue eyes under the guise of appropriating a barstool. There they are; crinkling at the corners, looking back.

Erik has a type and this is it personified. He has never strayed from pale skin, lush brown hair and backlit blue eyes. He’s certain he can predict the diluting spectrum of skin tone from the creamy ridge of neck to translucent valleys beneath the collared shirt. He knows how his hands tangle in wanton hair, tugging or holding, toward or down; the give of spectral flesh, silky and generous under his hands as they pull, pinch and roll in wordless instruction. He has practice at coaxing past glossy, exuberant lips for a bergamot taste.

Erik attempts to splash his desire away in the restroom sink but only water gurgles into the drain. Then, on his way back to Emma and Seb, blue eyes intercept him. They comment on his less than subtle attention and offer to buy him a drink. Erik blushes, heat enveloping like a fog from crown down. He stammers -You remind me of someone, sorry. He grabs his coat, takes hasty, ill-mannered leave of his workmates.

Now he is anxious: tapping his foot while buying soup, rocking from foot to foot on the train platform, running up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. He is just through the door when Charles emerges like a sunrise and Erik dumps everything on the floor and sinks into his husband’s wheelchair and into his lap, bedewing with kisses the freckled nose, the pale neck, the blissful eyelids and the shiny, red mouth. Charles is laughing, his incomparable eyes delighted and enchanted and still, after two decades, grateful to see Erik; and Erik is humbled, brought to heel, by the sight, as he is everyday.

-What brought this on? Charles asks, wrapping strong arms around Erik, and Erik can perceive the day, the world, attempting to jostle him about, sea to buoy, but Erik has Charles who is both tether and the sky above.

Erik kisses him again, invading, possessing, and thinks -There’s no one like you and nothing like being here. You’re my life. You’re my life. You’re my life.

After he sits up, tipsy and sated, he says only -I bought soup and I’ve been thinking about the cake all day.

Charles laughs fondly and wheels them into the kitchen; smiles as he turns on the hob and pulls out pans.

-You’re my type, Erik tells him.

-I’m not anymore, says Charles ruefully, rubbing his bald head. 

Erik kisses it and gets back on his feet and reheats soup, surrounded by clinks and clicks and the quilt of Charles’ affection.


End file.
